Once She Knew

by Sheila Connolly

  “Yes. Whatever.” He stood up too, with his coffee mug, and wandered toward the bathroom. He emerged a few minutes later with his face and other visible areas free of mud, his blankets draped around him like a toga. He settled himself in a chair at the kitchen table.

  “All right, Claire Hastings, what on earth are you doing in this godforsaken backwater?”

  Claire pulled out a frying pan and laid bacon strips in it. “Trying to get some work done. And don’t try to distract me. I want some answers about what you’re doing here.” It was bad enough trying to cook with this half-naked man in her kitchen. He looked surprisingly good, considering what he had been through. In fact, he looked surprisingly good, period. She had forgotten. Deliberately.

  “Hey, I want your full attention. Wait ’til breakfast’s on the table. But I assume you can talk about yourself while you cook? Tell me more.”

  Claire thought about insisting, but she realized she was starving too, and the bacon smelled wonderful. And the sooner she fed him, the sooner they could head for the police station.

  “I’ve been teaching for six years, and I was due for a sabbatical. I need to finish up the book I’ve been working on before my tenure review this year.” The breakout book that would establish her name in the academic pantheon, and maybe even garner a little public attention, which might in turn mean some extra dollars.

  “What’s the book?”

  “Gender and Genre: Paradigmatic Imagery in Contemporary Romantic Fiction.” Claire braced herself for a withering comment from Jonathan. “I’m exploring the conceptual, socio-historical aspects of gender identity, using contemporary romance fiction as the paradigm, and I’m examining why the women who are delineated in these bodice rippers present a skewed image of women.” And all seem to insist on seeking and pairing off with alpha males with throbbing pecs—and a few other body parts. “Not to mention the requisite HEA. Obviously a contemporary form of fantasy.”

  “Interesting.”

  Claire sneaked a glance at him to see if he was being sarcastic, but he actually looked thoughtful.

  He went on, “But why are you here, in this cabin? Wouldn’t Northampton be a more stimulating place to work?”

  At least he knew where Sophia College was—a point in his favor. She sighed as she turned the bacon. Why indeed? Halfway through her sabbatical, she was nowhere near finished—despite the fact that in the last six months she had read, by her count, some four hundred romance novels spanning the last five decades, not to mention all the critical literature she could lay her hands on.

  “Too comfortable, and too many distractions.” The restaurants, coffee shops, a basement cinema that showed only the best and most obscure art films, visiting colleagues, and all those bookstores, filled with books she actually wanted to read, kept dragging her away from her research. “I was at my folks’ house over Christmas, and they know the people who own this place. It’s always empty this time of year—and now that I’ve been here a few weeks, I can see why—and my mother thought it might help to try a different setting. And then there was the collection at the college, of course—it’s a terrific historic resource.”

  The bacon was crisping nicely. Claire pushed it to one side of the pan and broke eggs into the hot grease. She started to shove bread into the toaster, then stopped herself: no power.

  “Ah, yes, dear Abigail. Quite a character, wasn’t she?”

  Claire looked up from her cooking to glare at him. “I assume her endowment is paying for your stay here. I wouldn’t be so quick to snipe at her. Besides, she was a pivotal figure in her time, and her collection is remarkable.”

  Shut up, Claire, before you tell him you’ve been here a month and already you’re reduced to throwing books and talking to yourself. If she had to read any more drivel, she was going to . . . She didn’t know what. The place was ideal, so the problem must be her. Why was she stalled? She had chosen a challenging and timely concept for her work, and she had looked forward to writing it. So what was wrong?

  Well, if the piles of overwrought dreck that she’d been wading through were any indication, the answer was simple: she didn’t have a man, ergo she couldn’t understand romance fiction. But she didn’t need—or want—a man to define her life. She had her work, her place in the world. She was happy, she had friends, and she was successful—or would be when she finished this book.

  The eggs were done. Claire distributed eggs, bacon and untoasted bread on two plates and carried them to the table. “Here. Breakfast. Eat.”

  Jonathan looked up at her plaintively. “More coffee?”

  Claire retrieved the coffeepot and refilled their mugs. “Anything else?” She wondered if he noticed her sarcasm.

  “What? Oh, no. Thank you.” Jonathan dug into his breakfast with a hearty appetite. Apparently last night’s bullet wound and soaking in icy water had left no lingering effects.

  Between bites, Jonathan said, “How’s it going? The work, I mean?”

  Damn him, he seemed sincerely interested. But he was stalling, Claire knew. They had more important things to discuss than her interpretation of current feminist theory. “Never mind that. You seem to be in reasonably good shape, considering what you say happened last night. You need to talk to the police.” Jonathan avoided her eyes, and Claire felt a spurt of alarm. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts?”

  He shook his head, forking up eggs and bacon. “I don’t know. This whole thing makes no sense to me. I open the door and this guy says he’s from the FBI, and I let him in, and all hell breaks loose. Before I throw myself on the mercy of the local officials, I’d like to know a little more. Like why the FBI was knocking on my friend’s door. And why sweet little Susie came out shooting.”

  Claire stared at him, her mind racing. “I’m sure the police, or the FBI, or whoever’s in charge, will be happy to fill you in. Just as soon as you get there.” But, Claire realized with dismay, she was already an accomplice. Unless she delivered him to the nearest police station ASAP, she was probably harboring a fugitive, and that was a crime, wasn’t it? She was not about to put her career and her good name on the line for a jerk who didn’t even remember . . .

  He ignored that statement. “You have Internet access here?”

  She shook her head. “No. And no phone, just the cell. If I want the Internet, I go to the college.”

  “No television? Radio?”

  “No,” Claire said, with some asperity. “I’m here to get some work done.”

  “Damn. Maybe you could go out and nose around?”

  Was he actually asking her to dig herself in deeper? “Wait a minute. We agreed you would go straight to the police this morning and get this sorted out. I want you out of here—I’ve got work to do.” And it would be nice if he could get some real medical attention for his bullet wound, in case her ad hoc ministrations had been inadequate. Then she remembered. “That is, once we can find you some clean clothes,” she added dubiously. It didn’t seem quite right to drag him to the police station clad in a pair of her sweats, which was the only thing that she had that might fit him. Clearly his feet were larger than hers.

  Jonathan stared into space, then, as if reaching a decision, turned to Claire. “How about this—you go out and find me some clothes, and pick up a paper, see what you can find out?”

  “You’ve got some nerve!” Claire snapped at him. “You stumble in here last night, scaring me to death, and because you’re still here I could be arrested for harboring a fugitive, or abetting a crime, or something. Hell, for all I know, they could charge me as an accessory to murder, if that agent is dead. And you want me to play sleuth and find out what’s going on for you? Why should I?”

  “Claire, I know it’s a lot to ask. Look, if anybody traces any of this back to you, I’ll be happy to lie through my teeth to keep you clear. But I’ve known Annabeth for years, and I can’t imagine why the FBI would be interested in her. So what were they doing there?”

  “Maybe they were
looking for you?”

  “I doubt it. I haven’t done anything that would interest them. And why would the FBI know I was at Annabeth’s house? Where does Susie fit? She was the one with the gun, not me. Look, can’t you just ask a few discreet questions, and then come back and tell me what you’ve found out? Then we can figure out what to do.”

  Claire’s temper was rising like a thermometer in July. “We? Why on earth should I help you? I’d just as soon get you out of here as fast as possible.”

  Panic flashed across his face. “Claire, I don’t know what I can say, but something about this just doesn’t feel right.”

  That is a massive understatement, Claire thought. “Oh, well, obviously that’s enough to risk my reputation and my freedom for! I’ll be happy to play games with the FBI, based on this hunch of yours,” Claire snarled.

  “You don’t have to be sarcastic. I know this all sounds crazy. Look,” he fumbled, “before that damn book came out . . .”

  He was interrupted by the sound of tires crunching along the icy ruts on the access road. Claire rose quickly and peered out a window. “It’s a police car.”

  5

  “Find out what they want!” Jonathan hissed, as he ducked behind the couch, dragging the tangled pile of still-soggy clothes with him, out of sight.

  Claire slipped on her down jacket and her boots, and opened the door. A layer of ice still coated the porch and steps, and she had to tread gingerly. Still, she acknowledged, it was a blessing, because it hid any traces of Jonathan’s arrival. The police car had stopped in front of the cabin.

  A uniformed officer approached the porch. “Uh, ma’am, may I talk to you?”

  “Certainly, Officer. I’m Claire Hastings. How can I help you?” She forced herself to smile pleasantly but didn’t move from the porch.

  “Is this your cabin, ma’am?”

  “No, I’m borrowing it from the owners—the Murrays. They got in touch with your department, to let you know I’d be staying here, and I stopped by a few weeks ago to introduce myself at the police station. Is there a problem? Oh, is this about the power going out? Because I’ve got a fireplace, and battery-powered lights—I should be fine.” Claire hoped her smile was convincing.

  “No, ma’am, that’s not it. Have you seen anyone around here since last night?”

  Her senses came to full alert. To buy time she asked, “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “I hope not, ma’am, but there was some trouble near the college. A man was shot, and we’re looking for someone who was staying at the house where it happened. He’s disappeared, and we thought he might have come this way.”

  “Good heavens! Is the victim dead?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  The dismay Claire felt on hearing that was authentic. “Oh, dear. And you think this man you’re looking for did it?”

  “It’s possible, ma’am. We have a witness, a girl who was at the house. We’d really like to talk to the man, but he fled before we got there.”

  Claire thought furiously. Decision time. Jonathan had told her one story, and apparently Susie had told the police a different one. Did they have the gun, and were there fingerprints on it? Claire had about five seconds to choose who she wanted to believe, and what she was going to do about it.

  She was surprised to hear her next words coming from her mouth. “And you think the man came this direction?” Damn it, Claire, why didn’t you just tell him that the man they were looking for was inside?

  The officer shook his head. “We don’t know, ma’am, but we’re alerting everyone to be careful, keep an eye out, lock your doors. He could be dangerous. And you’re the only person along this road right now, so he’d probably make right for this place. If he came this way.”

  That warning’s just a little late. “Who should I be looking for?” It wasn’t hard to sound rattled, because she was.

  “A male Caucasian, thirty-five to forty, dark hair, beard. Maybe six feet, a hundred ninety pounds. Name of Jonathan Daulton.”

  “Is he armed?” Claire’s voice quavered.

  “He may be, ma’am. We found a weapon on the scene, but it belongs to the owner of the house. Uh, ma’am, are you alone out here?”

  “Yes, Officer. And I haven’t seen anybody, or heard any cars go by. I’m writing a book, so I like the peace and quiet.”

  “You have a phone, ma’am?”

  “A cell phone.”

  “If you see anything suspicious, you just give us a call, all right?” The officer climbed up the steps, his boots heavy on the treads, and handed her a card. His eyes scanned the porch, and she thanked the heavens that there was nothing out of the ordinary to see. “And make sure you keep your doors and windows locked, you hear?”

  “Of course, Officer. And thank you so much for letting me know. I promise I’ll be careful. And I’ll call you immediately if I see anything suspicious.”

  “You take care, ma’am.” The policeman retreated to his car, and with a bit of maneuvering, headed back the way he had come. Claire let out a long breath as she watched his taillights disappear through the trees.

  Behind her, the door eased open a crack. Without turning, Claire said, “You heard that?”

  “Yeah, I heard. The agent is dead, and Susie’s pointing the finger at me. Told you there was something funny going on.”

  If I believe you. When the police car was out of sight, Claire turned and came back into the cabin, shutting the door behind her. She stared at the man standing in front of her. How had he managed to embroil her in such a mess, and so quickly?

  “Why should I believe your story rather than theirs?”

  He stared at her for a moment, and then smiled without humor. “You shouldn’t. I wouldn’t, in your shoes. But if I turn myself in and I’m arrested, I won’t be able to sort this whole mess out.”

  “Why would they arrest you, if you haven’t done anything? And what is there to figure out?”

  Jonathan started pacing around the interior of the cabin, hampered by the trailing blankets. “I don’t know if this’ll make sense to you, but I’ve seen too many examples of bureaucratic screwups. If they take me in, once I get into the system it’ll take a while to get out again, innocent or not. I’d just as soon stay clear as long as possible.”

  “Keep trying—I’m not convinced. What about your friend Annabeth? Won’t she vouch for you? And what’s your hurry?”

  “I told you, she’s on the road somewhere. I’m not sure how to reach her.”

  “Right. Obviously she’s a close friend. You have heard of cell phones, haven’t you?”

  “I don’t have her number. It’s on my cell back at the house.”

  Claire noticed he’d ignored her second question. What was so pressing that he wanted to avoid being taken into custody? Did he truly not know where to find Annabeth Rankin? She’d be willing to bet the FBI could.

  Jonathan looked at her speculatively. “Claire, don’t you think it’s a little odd that the policeman didn’t mention that the FBI was involved?”

  “How the hell am I supposed to know? Why should that officer tell me anything? I’m just an innocent bystander. All I wanted was a little peace and quiet, so I could get some real work done. And then you show up.” Claire stalked across the room to the kitchen and stared out the window, trying to calm herself. Her sensible self said, turn the guy in and be done with it.

  But there was this other little voice asking: would Jonathan Daulton shoot anyone? Based on what she knew, that seemed improbable. But why would student Susie lie? What was going on in this sleepy Maine college town? And what was the fastest way for Claire to figure it out, get rid of Jonathan Daulton, and get back to work?

  The obvious answer was to hand him over to the cops. And yet . . . he had a point. In her rare dealings with law enforcement, she had to admit that once they latched on to an idea, they hung on like bulldogs—not unlike some academics she knew. She turned to face Jonathan.

  “All right, here’s what I
’ll do. I’ll go to town, and to the college, and see what I can find out. I’ll get you something to wear, since your stuff is pretty well trashed. And then I’ll come back and we can reconsider. If I don’t find out anything odd, I’m taking you straight to the police. Fair enough?” If she was lucky, maybe he’d be gone by the time she got back.

  “Thank you. For believing me. I’m not sure I would, under the circumstances.”

  Claire crossed the room and poured the last of the coffee into her mug. She needed all the alertness she could muster. “Hey, I didn’t say I believed you. I said I needed more information. All right, what do you want in the way of clothes?”

  He thought for a moment. “Coat, pants, shirts, underwear, socks, boots.”

  “I’ll expect you to pay me back when all this is cleared up. Here, write down the sizes.” She handed him a pad and a pencil.

  “Damn!” he said, writing and talking at the same time. “If the cops or the FBI are watching, I can’t use my credit cards—even if I had them, which I don’t, because my wallet is still back at Annabeth’s house, along with all my ID. And my laptop and cell phone. And the cops will be keeping an eye on my place, and on my friends and family. How’m I supposed to clear myself if I can’t get any information, can’t contact anyone, can’t go anywhere?”

  Claire took some small pleasure in his dilemma. “Welcome to the wonderful world of electronic monitoring. Speaking of which, did you use your computer, or Annabeth’s, while you were there?” Which might have drawn the FBI to that house?

  “Just my laptop. Not Annabeth’s desktop, although maybe Susie did. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “And did you look at any sites the FBI might be interested in?”

  “No way! Nothing that would be worthy of FBI attention, anyway. Well, these days maybe I shouldn’t say that—but I don’t think so. I’m careful. I looked at my e-mail, and some stuff for my seminar.”

  “Uh-huh.” Not very satisfying. “Was the FBI agent at the door looking for Annabeth or you?”